On Monday, Carolyn and I went to see Tuesday together. I don’t want to spoil it for anyone, so stop here if it’s on your TBW.
The movie at its simplest narrative arc is about a mother whose daughter, Tuesday, has a terminal illness. Death comes to Tuesday in the form of a ragged, coughing macaw. The movie digs into themes of death, mother/daughter relationships (especially mothers and critically ill daughters), and our general purpose in life.
Seeing Tuesday with Carolyn was an experience I expected to struggle with, though it wasn’t as dark as we expected, it had funny moments, and it was thoughtful. Carolyn loved it and wanted to watch it again as soon as it finished.
It should be understood that we’re a morbid family. Tuesday, compared to a lot of our dinner conversation, is an uplifting film. Though people may find our approach to the world a bit dark, for us it’s a relief to be able to have the conversations we have- otherwise they’d sit in our throats like a stone. It’s a gift to be able to face the harder parts of life together.
When Carolyn was sick, we’d sometimes talk about what would happen if she died. She always wanted reassurance that I would be okay, which was an impossible thing to promise. I would not, could not make myself be okay if she died. A part of me ached for her to know that, but another part of me knew the burden it would place on her.
She liked to talk about how Jack and I would go on, which always drove home the knowledge that I would have to find a way to push forward for Jack’s sake. During these conversations, I felt like I was standing on a stone wall- on one side, I could see whatever unknown waits at the end of all our lives, and on the other side there was Jack needing me to be no less of a mother through my grief. There was no good solution. I wanted all of us on the same side of the wall.
In Tuesday, the mom resists conversations about her daughter’s mortality. When Tuesday tells her mother she has to talk to her about something important, the mom tries to push it off until the morning. When Tuesday tells her mother that her death is imminent, her mom gets angry. I never got angry with Carolyn about wanting to talk about dying, but I felt fury at how it dogged us. It was always, always on my mind.
What I found most compelling about Tuesday was the subtle ways it conveyed the experience of watching your child succumb to an illness. It is one of the rare experiences that is exactly as terrible as people imagine it to be, and there are parts to it that are difficult to describe because they’re subdued or unsavory. They go against what we believe to be an ‘appropriate’ or ‘acceptable’ responses.
Early on in the movie the daughter’s in-home nurse chastises the mom. You should spend more time with her, she says, which is what we all know we should be doing- spending as much time as possible with our loved ones before they’re gone. There is an urgency we are expected to feel when someone is sick which should drive us into a state of action, of motivation, of doing something.
I’m stunned by how active parents of sick kids are in books and movies and shows. They all seem to be rushing around, constantly working to stay on top of the paperwork, the caregiving, the labor. They wear real clothes instead of the same leggings three days in a row and sweatshirts that announce the size of their thighs.
For much of our time in cancer treatment, all I could bring myself to do was breathe and stare. I spent a lot of time staring out windows, at walls, into space. I felt so lost, so overwhelmed, it was like I was constantly swimming against a tide. Eventually I’d have to stop and just drift. I knew it was the wrong thing to do- I should be motivated to save my kid’s life at all costs, and that motivation should never, ever waver. It was the message I was sent by every depiction of a parent of a sick kid I saw. Nothing has ever made me feel more inadequate.
In Tuesday, when the mom spends an entire day sitting on a park bench and eventually falls asleep, missing call after call from her daughter’s nurse, I thought, there it is. There’s our story. There was relief in seeing the messiness of the mother’s grief.
I never fell asleep on a park bench, but I spent plenty of time away from my sick kid, spacing out, letting my mind fog. I was not a graceful mourner- I did not cry delicately or in private. I fell apart all over the place, in ways that drove people in my life away.
I’ve been raising my kids for the majority of my adult years. I have things I do separate from them, I have an identity that doesn’t revolve around them, but they’ve made my life what it is. Every good thing in my life has come out of my decision to have them.
It hasn’t always been simple or clear- I’ve drank more than I should have for longer than was healthy, I’ve made decisions I wish I could change, but the broader strokes of my life are for their benefit. I went back to school because I hoped it would allow me to better support two kids. I took a 9-5 office job after I graduated because I wanted them to have health insurance and financial security.
Even my mannerisms have adapted to suit their needs- Jack hates cursing, so I shifted my vocabulary. I don’t drink because it does nothing for my motherhood (or myself.) I get up early most days because I want my kids to see someone is waking up every day to take care of them. I want them to know, always, that they’re occupying a part of my mind.
The mom in Tuesday tells her daughter, toward the end of her life, “I don’t know who I am without you.” I felt this so acutely. I don’t know who I am in a world without my children. I don’t want to know.
Carolyn told me, one night when we were squeezed into her hospital bed, that she felt okay with whatever happened because she knew Jack and I would take care of things. You’ll remember me, she said. That conversation has haunted me in the years since.
After her daughter dies, Death comes to the mother one last time. It tells her that, in the absence of an afterlife, she is her daughter’s legacy; The echo you leave…your memory, is how she lives.
As the credits rolled, I felt Carolyn snuggle against my arm like she used to when we’d sleep side by side in her hospital bed. She wound her long fingers between my own, squeezed my hand, and asked if I was okay. I was crying, which I don’t do often. I nodded and swiped at my face with my sleeve. I smiled, grabbed the empty popcorn bucket, and asked if she wanted to get dinner before we went home. She beamed, nodded, grabbed her drink cup, and walked out of the theater and into the soft late-day light. Mac and cheese! she yelled out, startling a group of people passing on the sidewalk.
It is a heavy thing to consider that, rather than your children carrying on your memory, you might carry theirs. It’s an idea I rolled around in my mind when Carolyn was sick, and still now when the shadows on the wall keep me up at night. It is a burden I hope, beyond anything, we never have to bear.
Oh man, what a hard road you're travelling on. I don't know if I could cope in your situation, but then I realised I would cope because I had to. Just like you. No matter what you do, or don't do, you are doing your best and you're doing it your way. Really, there's no other way, is there?
THIS: "Though people may find our approach to the world a bit dark, for us it’s a relief to be able to have the conversations we have- otherwise they’d sit in our throats like a stone. It’s a gift to be able to face the harder parts of life together."